


Brothers; or, Three Times Dead

by Ailavyn_Siniyash



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Mistborn - Brandon Sanderson, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson, Warbreaker - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Blood, CFSWF, Canonical Character Death, Gen, in july and then never posted it here, wheeeee i wrote this for, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:18:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5496806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ailavyn_Siniyash/pseuds/Ailavyn_Siniyash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six brothers--three deaths;</p><p>Three Shardworlds--one cosmere;</p><p>One retelling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers; or, Three Times Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to neuxue for betaing!

I. Terror

Tien stood at the front of the squad, trembling so hard it was getting more and more difficult to even keep ahold of his spear. _What am I doing here?_ As usual, he had no answer. He missed Kaladin, and he missed his father and his mother, and he missed Hearthstone and carving and spending hours gathering rocks. Every rock was special, and worthy of admiration, and to a degree, people were all like that too, but… that army massed in front of him, threatening… That didn’t look like people. That looked like a highstorm, a force vast and unknowable. A destruction. He almost reached for the beautiful speckled stone he’d picked up earlier as a present for Kaladin, wanting to grab it, hold it for comfort, but he caught himself just in time. He couldn’t drop his spear. Not even if it would feel safer.

He gripped the wood of the weapon like a lifeline, un-rocky and unsafe as it was, tried to make the scent of blood and death vanish, and wished his brother were here.

“Tien!” That was Kaladin’s voice, hoarse and loud and desperate and wonderful, and he almost couldn’t believe it was real. He turned his head in the direction of it, and there Kaladin was, battered and bleeding but alive and _here_ and Tien couldn’t help the grin that appeared on his face. Kaladin would always be there for him, he just had to remember that, because that was the most important thing, even more important than rocks.

And then suddenly there was sun glinting off metal, blinding, instead of the soft sparkle of quartz, and the highstorm of people was upon him, and he kept his gaze on Kaladin, frantic, as pain exploded.

 

II. Contentment

“You were my brother,” said Llarimar, not quite looking at Stennimar–at Lightsong–at Stennimar. It had been years since he had Returned, and Llarimar still hadn’t decided what name to use in his own head. His brother–the god–his brother raised his head a fraction from its bent position, pain and mourning for the death of Blushweaver the Honest shining from it, and, only slightly haltingly, Llarimar gave him the rest of the story of his death and of his Return. It was all he had left, now, a gift to his god and an apology to his brother. Because whatever his brother thought, he _was_ a god, and that was what gave Llarimar the strength to continue and the faith to carry on.

Llarimar closed his eyes as he finished, the memory of that day playing out again in his mind, the terror and the wonder of it still fresh even years later. They weren’t going to survive the night, but at least… at least his brother knew, now. It had been incredibly strange to see his own crisis of faith mirrored inelegantly back at him, especially coming from the one who had restored his own faith. It had been only painful, though, to watch his brother struggle with faint, smudged memories of events Llarimar could still visualise as though it had been yesterday, and know that he could not help.

Clattering, and muffled sounds of struggle. A cage door clattered, and then there was wordless yelling, fearful yelling. A tear dripped off his face, and another, and he was ashamed to admit he was terrified, terrified for himself and for his brother, the kind of terrified where you freeze up and don’t dare look at the danger because maybe then, maybe it won’t see you either.

“You are my king, and the lord of the gods,” whispered his brother’s voice, and it was steady like it hadn’t been since the beginning of this chain of disasters, self-assured like it hadn’t been since he started doubting himself, and so very, very familiar that Llarimar looked up in spite of himself and froze at the sight of Lightsong grabbing the hand of the God King with a smile he could sense even from behind.

“My life to yours; my breath become yours,” said Lightsong, sounding, in spite of everything, content, and Llarimar’s mind went blank.

 

III. Hope

Kelsier watched the approach of the Lord Ruler’s black carriage, flaring his Copper against the mass Soothing that emanated from it. It hit him anyways, but he kept his composure. This was everything, the culmination of years of work and hundreds of lives and all his hopes. He couldn’t afford to make any mistakes, not this time. His metals were shining in his stomach, diminished by his fight with the Inquisitor, but the Eleventh Metal still pooled there brightly, its presence not quite reassuring, not even a promise, but a slim possibility. A chance. And if that chance didn’t come to pass… Well, his second plan would be similarly effective, though with a slightly higher personal casualty rate.

The crowd parted to make way for the carriage, skaa and soldiers squeezing themselves impossibly close to avoid its inexorable movement. The ash-filtered sunlight filtered down sluggishly, drenching everything in dull red, a complement to the coppery scent of blood rising from the corpses littering the ground around him. The carriage stopped and time seemed to slow as Kelsier watched the Lord Ruler step out, dignified and poised, every motion he made and every adornment he wore a mark of his power, and Kelsier hated him.

He burned the Eleventh Metal.

A man stood beside the Lord Ruler, keeping pace with him as he walked, a man similar in appearance, but older, less commanding, more content. His clothing was humbler, as well. Kelsier flared the metal, just to make certain, and narrowly suppressed visible dismay when nothing more occurred.

Movement from the massed skaa, and shouts of his name, and _oh, you idiots_. He nearly groaned aloud as five of Ham’s soldiers burst out of the crowds, armed with nothing but spears and anger against the Lord Ruler’s composure, which remained unshaken even as they stabbed him, bellowing their vengeance, the spears making his body a pincushion. For a moment, Kelsier was impressed in spite of himself, and then the brave, doomed men began to scream as an Inquisitor hacked them to pieces and Kelsier channelled his renewed fury into his gaze, into his posture. This time, he would face the Lord Ruler as an equal.

They stood in silence for a time, there, the thief and the tyrant and the corpses and the ash, and then the Lord Ruler spoke, sending a sharp glance at the Inquisitor that had been Kelsier’s opponent. “Those are very hard to replace.”

Kelsier let pride flow into his grin, felt it become tighter, more ominous, and said nothing.

The Lord Ruler fixed him with his eyes again, sharp and annoyed. “I killed you, once,” he said, the smallest hint of acid in his voice.

“You tried,” said Kelsier, and he firmed his voice, steadied his gaze, widened his smile, controlled his reactions in this most culminatory con of his life. “But you can’t kill me, Lord Tyrant. I represent the one thing that you’ve _never_ been able to kill, no matter how hard you try.” _Perhaps, when this is over, I’ll be able to see Marsh again, and Mare._ “I am hope.”

And as the Lord Ruler’s hand swung towards him, deadly, he thought that, perhaps, he’d made a good use of his life after all.

 


End file.
